Polaroid.

20150807-171633.jpg

Look at me and my snazzy mini Polaroid camera! It’s actually a Fujifilm Instax Mini 8, apparently, and I took it out on its very first outing last night…to the pub. Yes. That’s right. I took two photographs in the pub and then squealed as the photo appeared on the little piece of photograph card. I did this whilst sipping four jugs of cocktails.

It really is the little things for me. Well…in most cases.

Sometimes…

Blah.
Blah blah.

Hello.
I have nothing particular to say but when do I ever?
Actually I’m lying.
Turns out a guy I was talking to quite seriously had a fiancĂ©e and then fucked a girl he worked with, all whilst talking to me. Who says men couldn’t multitask.
Me.
Me, I said that.
I.
I was wrong.
Again.
I think I choose people based on the probability of me being able to fix them or make their lives better, as if it’s going to make my own more meaningful. I don’t need more meaning, I think I seek reassurance and someone else’s need for me. It’s like a ‘Fix someone else and in part fixing yourself too’ kinda thing. Sounds like a trashy film. Or a shit buy one get one free supermarket deal.
I have also purchased a mini Polaroid camera. That should be fun. Instant pictures apparently. How swell!
I’d apologise for my staccato sentence structure and paragraph organisation but I’m not sure you or I care that much.

Sometimes I just like to write.
And sometimes it’s not very funny.
Sometimes is a very shit word.

Perfect Utopian World.

And in forgiving him I realised something. How many of us forgive someone out of the fear of losing them? Because life is better with him, right? Life is better to be in the warmth of the web rather than standing in the cold light of freedom. 

Maybe I’m too weak to break the routine of morning texts or maybe I need to find a smidge of self respect in the depths of my shattered idealism.

Maybe it’s me. Maybe I have created a utopian world where everyone is perfect and that’s what keeps ruining things. I have high expectations and everyone falls at the last ten metre hurdle. Am I too perfect to oversee those flaws? I’m beginning to think I am.

Nester.

I’ve just been called a nester.

I’ve been talking to a guy and when he shared his dating preferences with me, he called me a ‘nester’.

He on the other hand just fucks and runs away. Me? I’m looking for the butterflies and I don’t think that’s such an awful thing to want. 

He attempted to make me feel degraded and desperate in my want for happiness. 

Want another ‘n’ sounding word? Knob.

Ranty rant.

I often read the Daily Mail (a British newspaper) for a little light relief. Their fast paced, spelling error littered ‘articles’ never fail to make laugh. Laugh in disbelief. They often report on: celebrity dodging a puddle because celebrities missing puddles is ground breaking. See that ground? Yep. That’s right. It’s broken. Daily Mail did that. Ooooo.

Breaking from my marking I thought I’d pop on to their trashy website and devour my five minutes into something utterly ridiculous and it wasn’t long before I found this:

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/tvshowbiz/article-2963328/Jena-Malone-Stana-Katic-Aubry-Plaza-worst-dredded-Independent-Spirits.html

And the award for worst dressed goes too… Jena Malone, Stana Katic and Aubrey Plaza didn’t play it safe at the Independent Spirits

Excellent yet again we are sending out a message to young girls that says:

DON’T DRESS FOR YOU! DRESS FOR OTHERS! BE SCARED AND MATCH YOUR PRINTS! BE SHY AND STAY SAFE WITH FASHION! DON’T LET IT SHOW YOUR PERSONALITY, LET IT SHOW YOUR FEAR OF SOCIETY AND CRITICS!

Oh fuck off. You’re kidding me right?

Heidi Parker seems to think that putting other women’s fashion choices down is the way to go. Parker had to meet a deadline and had nothing else to write, right? Oh I see. No no that’s fine. Point out and humiliate women. Excellent Parker. You spiteful bitch.

You’re an embarrassment. Not only to yourself but to other women. Absolutely disgusting.

Paris police launch inquiry after Chelsea fans seen abusing black man on film.

Alright loves.

It’s half term and therefore I feel partially human once more.
You should know by now that I have blogger bursts and barren blogger bum notes but today she’s back. The over opinionated, bitter lover, sarcastic shooting singular.

Lovely to meet you.

I’m not a very enthusiastic fan of football, I have lost a fair bet in my time supporting Arsenal and a specific Tottenham fan has taken a great deal of joy from my loss. I have never been to a match, never owned a football however I am a Silver Arsenal Member. Hardcore Gooner for life bruv init.

Football to me has always been a sport for which pansy men kick a ball and earn more in a week than I do all year. The fans vary in eloquence, style and maturity but are all there with the same purpose. Footballers are often reported diving, falling over and even biting, so why was I so surprised to read this headline?

Paris police launch inquiry after Chelsea fans seen abusing black man on film

People from our country travelled to support their team and found it necessary to stop a French civilian from boarding a train that he pays tax for every month. They were proud to be racist they said. Proud to prevent someone from getting home from work. Proud of humiliating another human being. Proud of being utterly vile.

That’s our country ladies and gentleman. No royal finery or scones and afternoon tea.
Scum, vicious racists. That’s our country. How dare they and if publicity is what they were after then fine, they have it. But if my country represents violence and vile racism then I have no want to be a part of it.

Who am I?
A woman, a teacher, a flakey fan of football. My opinion may not reach the ear of those who behave in ways that can only be described as abominable but I refuse to be represented by these disgusting specimens of humanity.

Men? You’re nothing more than big boys playing a little boys game of ‘you can’t be in our gang’ but sadly this time you’ve been caught out. Quite frankly I’d sooner gouge my eyes out with a wooden spoon than be associated with those animals.

Your mothers, I’m sure, are incredibly proud.
Your fathers, I’m sure, are cheering “Go on my son!”
Your children, I’m sure, are fantasying about terrorising their next victim in the school playground. Well…Daddy did it.
Me you ask? I have nothing more to say.

Who am I?

You’ve got those teacher eyes.
I know you have.
You know the ones.
The eyes that say “And where have you been?” when a child walks in late to class.

I’m sorry okay. Sorry.
I don’t have a note. I don’t have a reason. I just have a ‘sorry’.

Do you ever feel like life is swallowing you up? I’m feeling like that. Except that it hasn’t spat me out yet, so I am churning and tumbling in some kind of food processor ready to be eaten up by some big shot. I’d happily serve the big shot and make him feel happy inside but I am pretty sure books, marking and data don’t taste too good.

I watched ‘The Best of Me’ today and cried. I haven’t shown emotion like that for months and my god did it flow. It flowed and flowed and flowed until I was laying in a wet pillow wanting to take a gap year.

It’s not that I don’t enjoy my job. I love it.
I just don’t know who I am. Like who I really am.
I’m many people to many different people and that’s not because I’m two faced because I am the type to tell you if you’re being a *insert bad word* but it’s because I feel like I have to be all of these people. Does that make sense?

Miss Teacher
Miss Daughter
Miss Please don’t screw me over
Miss I don’t f*cking need this shit so f*ck off
Miss Independent
Miss Hold me

Who am I?

I’ll put them into a hat and pick one out in a couple of days.

“You were my best friend. My deepest love. And the very best of me.”

Hottie stalker time.

“Hey hottie”
Takes me a good thirty seconds to realise ‘hottie’ was me.
“Oh sorry, hello”
“So, do you come here often?”
Didn’t start off well really did it. I mean that’s the scraping of the barrel.
“Erm no I don’t actually, this is my first time here”
“I can tell, you’re very unsure of yourself in here aren’t you? I’ve watched you since you walked in”
Great. Fucking great. Why do I always end up with the weirdo?
“Oh, do you often watch girls?”
Valid question. Good to know from the off.
“Oh no. You’re just an acception”
Eugh.
I laughed. Not in a nervous girlie way but in a “for fuck sake get me away from this guy” way.
“So what do you do for a living?”
“I’m an English teacher”
“Ooooo going to tell me off if I’m a bad boy? Give me a detention? Just me and you?”

Erm. I’m still not sure how to react to that. Even at the time I gave him a ‘awww bless you’ve just blown it’ frown and walked off. But still, no verbal reaction. I don’t know whether that’s because I’m shocked, disgusted or numb.

I’m really tired of it all. I’m not a temperature. I’m not a dirty stripper teacher. I don’t like stalkers. And I don’t like cheesy chat up lines. Fuck off.

I’d like a normal guy or in other words…I’m going to be single for a very long time.